Dead.
All of them dead.
Lying, scattered across the ground, every one of them, everyone he had ever known, everyone he had ever been close to, everyone he had ever loved.
And it was all his fault.
Roxanne, dried blood coating her chest, her hands, the floor around her.
Minion, his dome broken open, his lifeless body with eyes rolled up in his tiny head.
The warden, limbs askew, his head far away, somewhere it couldn't be seen.
Metro Man, blue from strangulation, fingerprints deep in the sides of his throat.
All of them.
Dead.
All of it.
His fault.
His fault.
His fault.
Thank God he wasn't alive to know it.